


Scale of Victory

by stephanericher



Series: SASO 17 [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 19:24:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11168481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Takao Kazunari is, however, wholly unaccounted for. He stands, small but powerful, hair held back by a headband and arms crossed over his chest. Midorima feels his jaw twitch involuntarily, and wills himself not to think about that game—Takao Kazunari, the hawkeye, shooting the ball through the hoop at every angle, passing it out to the forwards, standing tall as one of the Generation of Miracles, as Midorima had fallen.





	Scale of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> written for saso '17 br1 (original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=9979154#cmt9979154)); AU where Takao is the one who went to Teikou and Midorima is the one he defeated

“I’m here to play shooting guard.”  
  
Midorima’s not here to mince words, dampen the message by saying it’s something he’d like to do. It’s something he’s going to do, something he can return to now that he’s on a strong team. Shutoku’s nationally-ranked forward corps is one of the main reason he’d chosen it for his high school; there is no need for him to play center because he’s the only person over six feet, no need to stick him under the hoop because his teammates can’t grab rebounds or raise their hands in a block. There’s no need to pass the ball out to someone unreliable so they can shoot a three.   
  
“You?”  
  
Takao Kazunari is, however, wholly unaccounted for. He stands, small but powerful, hair held back by a headband and arms crossed over his chest. Midorima feels his jaw twitch involuntarily, and wills himself not to think about that game—Takao Kazunari, the hawkeye, shooting the ball through the hoop at every angle, passing it out to the forwards, standing tall as one of the Generation of Miracles, as Midorima had fallen.   
  
“Me,” says Midorima, scowling harder and standing taller.   
  
“Hey,” says Ootsubo, stepping between them. “Midorima, aren’t you a forward?”  
  
“That was not my choice,” says Midorima. “There are excellent forwards here; I can play shooting guard.”  
  
“Look,” says Kimura. “Takao is—”  
  
“A brat,” Miyaji finishes. “Look, Kid, Takao, a little competition never hurt anyone, and if you’re as good as you think you are then whatever, but I’ll run you over if you dismiss your teammates. You, too.”  
  
Midorima supposes that last bit is directed at him, and wonders if Miyaji actually means what he says or if his threats are empty (he supposes that since Miyaji’s younger brother hasn’t been decapitated by a pineapple yet he might be safe, but then again he’s not family). Takao’s cocked one eyebrow at Miyaji.   
  
“Look, with all due respect—” Takao starts.  
  
“Nothing respectful ever comes after that,” says Miyaji.   
  
“You’re not helping,” says Kimura.  
  
Midorima would tend to agree, if anyone had asked him, but they all seem to have forgotten he’s there in the first place. He coughs.  
  
“Takao Kazunari,” he says. “I challenge you to a three-point contest.”  
  
“Oh?” says Takao, grinning widely enough for it to look just a little creepy. “A challenge, huh? We’ll see.”  
  
Midorima wouldn’t mind if Miyaji did run Takao over—after Midorima’s beat him, of course. Which, of course, he will. He hasn’t prepared as best he could for in-game three-point situations, but even as a forward he’d continued to take his hundred shots at the end of every practice, increasing them to two hundred after that game where Takao Kazunari had all but laughed in his face. He might dismiss Midorima now, but Midorima’s okay with it if it means he has farther to fall. Midorima pushes up his glasses.   
  
“We should really—” Ootsubo starts.  
  
Kimura claps his hands. “Great! We’ll have it all worked out and then we can get to practice. Here.”  
  
He hands a ball to Takao.   
  
Takao picks his shots, not for distance but for angle—taking his own advantage, which isn’t really fair, but Midorima’s not in the business of fairness. He’s prepared for the situations where Takao’s hawkeye gives him the advantage, and even without vision he has muscle memory, repetition, routine on his side. Takao sinks a shot from the corner; Midorima sinks a shot from the corner. Takao sinks a shot from the other corner; Midorima sinks the same shot. They go around the arc, less than a meter from half-court, each of them sinking every shot.  
  
“Look,” says Ootsubo. “You’re both good. Take a shot from half-court and be done with it.”  
  
Midorima huffs; Takao can keep going but Midorima’s seen him miss a few shots in games (and no, that’s not delight he’d felt at the time when he’d seen it, and he hadn’t been measuring his own shooting percentage against Takao’s, getting it ever-upward not only in a quest for personal perfection but to increase the distance). Midorima doesn’t miss too often, but Takao misses more, and he’d be willing to bet that Takao will miss one of these shots first.  
  
“What if we both make it?” says Takao.   
  
Miyaji rolls his eyes. “Wait until it happens, Brat.”  
  
(Even if this happens—even if Midorima does make it and Takao doesn’t, doesn’t Coach Nakatani make the final decision? Midorima steals a glance at the sidelines, the backups and the players competing for the starting job, the managers, and Coach with his clipboard—perhaps he’s confident in letting them work it out for themselves. But he hasn’t stopped them, and if Midorima wins that’s not a strike against him. Even if it takes longer, he’ll prove the starting job is his.)  
  
Takao takes the shot first, dribbling in place (what does that accomplish?) before taking the J, the arc slow and winding and nearly flat, but almost exactly on target, and in this case almost counts just as well. The ball rolls around the hoop and falls in, bouncing to the floor. One of the backups hurries over and passes the ball back down to Midorima. He picks it up, rolling it in his fingers until he finds the optimal grip. He stands, looks, and shoots. It’s been a long time since he’s watched one of his shots fall from this distance, and while he doesn’t want to let himself admire it the ball looks nice, high and graceful and fast, tumbling from the peak of its arc straight through the peak almost too fast for the netting to even make a sound. That’s something he’d practiced, even after his hundreds of shots, something he’d never dream of doing in a game back on that shitty middle-school team but something maybe he could do here, at Shutoku.  
  
He looks at Takao. Takao’s jaw is open, as if he’s been daydreaming in class (he looks three thousand times less attractive like that, not that Midorima’s ever been quantifying his looks). Is he going to concede? (It’s not conceit but simple fact that Midorima’s shot had been better, prettier, more decisive.)  
  
“One-on-one,” Takao says, finally. “Show me. I don’t care if you’ve got trick shots, try doing them against me.”  
  
Ootsubo looks as if he wants to step in again, but Kimura holds him back. Miyaji crosses his arms; he looks impatient but interested.   
  
“One-on-one,” says Midorima. “First to five points. For the shooting guard position.”  
  
“Done,” says Takao.  
  
Ootsubo does the tipoff; Takao wins it. He dribbles down the court and Midorima gives him a wide enough birth; his arms are long enough and his vertical’s good; if Takao goes to shoot Midorima should be able to stop him, and if he fakes Midorima’s got enough room to recover. Come to think of it, Midorima’s got the natural advantage in a one-on-one—Takao’s secondary skills were all passing-focused, but Midorima’s are blocking and rebounding, things that should translate well enough even when they’re straying far from right under the hoop.  
  
Takao makes a move to shoot; Midorima follows—but just as quickly Takao pivots and shoots from the side; Midorima wonders how it will even go in if it goes over his arm but it does; it streaks right through where his arm had been before he’d started his lean to correct for Takao’s new position, off the backboard and in through the hoop. From the first position Takao had been at a bad angle and he’d known it; the second was his plan all along.   
  
Everyone on the sidelines is cheering; there are some whistles; Midorima sets his jaw. He is not going to let Takao humiliate him like this.   
  
“Concede?” says Takao. “It’s okay if you do.”  
  
“Never,” says Midorima.  
  
They go back the other way; Takao’s in the lead—he’s only got two, but he could win with a three and Midorima knows that all too well. Takao’s aggressive on defense, pushing Midorima back and darting in for the ball; he finally gets tired of faking and lunges in for the steal—Midorima snatches it away from his fingers at the last second and he might as well shoot now. Takao gets up in time for a block attempt, but Midorima shoots it over his fingers. He’s just beyond the arc; this is going in for three.   
  
“I think you’ll find that my so-called trick shots work just as well when someone tries to defend them,” says Midorima.   
  
“It’s still my possession,” says Takao.  
  
Midorima does not plan on letting him get anywhere near three or even two points, but enacting that will be difficult. A challenge, but one he accepts gladly. Takao dribbles down the court, slowly, trying to throw Midorima off. It won’t work. Midorima fakes in; Takao doesn’t flinch. When he moves to shoot, it’s deliberate; it’s beyond the arc and no fake this time, Midorima’s sure. Takao’s going to regret giving him that chance. He leaps. Takao releases the ball at the peak of his jump; Midorima thinks for a second he’s too late but then the ball grazes the top of his fingers and he’s sent it off-course—but when he looks behind him, the ball is traveling toward the hoop regardless. Had Takao planned for that, bet on Midorima changing the trajectory, calculated the arc? Does that vision thing of his do that? Wasn’t the Teikou point guard the one who was supposed to have precognition?  
  
Midorima races toward the hoop; the game might be over but if it’s not he’s going to grab the rebound. The ball lands, hitting the top of the hoop and bouncing up, falling to hit it again and this time bouncing to the left, right toward Midorima. The rebound lands in his hands, secure, the way it has many times before, only this time it’s not on him to pass it out or start something that ends in a layup. Takao’s in front of him, fast enough to guard him with the ball, but Midorima knows he has this. He’s not going to get too secure, but he can take any shot and it will go in. He doesn’t even try to go around Takao, taking a jumper from just inside half-court, close enough where his accuracy jumps a few percentage points. Takao’s blocking attempt is admirable, but he’s too short and even if he’d had a ten-foot vertical the ball’s trajectory is too high and straight. It falls through the hoop; Midorima watches Takao watch it, head twisted and arms still outstretched.   
  
The sound of the spectators brings Midorima back to the present; Takao slowly turns. He looks annoyed, but mostly unreadable; Midorima frowns.  
  
“Well, I guess it’s your win,” says Takao with a sigh.   
  
Midorima nods. “Indeed it is.”  
  
Takao pulls a face. “God, you’re so—whatever.”   
  
“Where’s he going to play?” Miyaji says, walking over with Coach Nakatani.  
  
“Try him at the one,” says Coach. “If it doesn’t work out, we might switch back, but for now we can try Midorima as a shooting guard and Takao as a point guard.”  
  
“And you’d better fucking try,” says Miyaji, turning to Takao. “Don’t just not show up because you want to play another position.”  
  
“Do I look like the type to sabotage my own team?” says Takao.   
  
(Midorima’s inclined to agree with Takao there; as annoying and cocky as he is he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would do that.)  
  
Miyaji shrugs. “Just saying.”

* * *

“I don’t remember this part of the bet,” says Takao.  
  
Midorima points to the rickshaw. “You need to improve your jump and your leg strength. Pedal.”  
  
“Who the hell do you think you are?”  
  
“Shutoku’s starting shooting guard,” says Midorima, pushing up his glasses. “I need a ride to school.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” says Takao. “This is ridiculous.”  
  
Midorima looks at him. Takao sighs.   
  
“You know, you should have gone somewhere like Teikou. Played with other good players, might have taught you some modesty or something.”  
  
He still gets on the rickshaw and pedals, and Midorima considers it another victory in his column (not that he’s counting, but his lucky item today does happen to be a chalkboard).

* * *

They win the first exhibition game against Josei, perhaps in part due to Midorima’s insistence that Takao carry Scorpio’s lucky item, a can of soda. Takao’s passes are crisp; the hawkeye skill lends itself well to his new position even after years of honing it for shooting ability. Midorima’s own shots are accurate; he shoots only threes and leads the team in points, shots, and accuracy (not as high as he’d hoped, but close enough that he decides not to take more than the usual two hundred for extra practice when he gets home).   
  
“That was really something,” says Takao, sitting backwards on the bike seat.   
  
He’s leaning on the handlebars; Midorima wants to say something about not breaking it but Takao’s light enough for it not to work.  
  
“Oh, man,” Takao says. “I don’t know if my legs can take the ride back, though.”  
  
“You’re Generation of Miracles,” says Midorima. “I thought you could do everything.”  
  
It doesn’t come out as bitter as he expects it to, but Takao cocks his head.  
  
“I’m not going to fall for goading, you know. But—c’mere.”  
  
Midorima scoots forward in the back of the rickshaw. Takao sits up, almost pitching forward—is this a trust fall? Is he going to try and get Midorima to pedal?—but then catching himself before his forehead touches Midorima’s. Midorima feels hot all over suddenly, as if he’s back in the middle of the gym, like he needs to take off his jacket. And then Takao’s lips are on his, soft and salty, and Midorima can’t move. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to close his eyes or do something with his mouth, but the kiss is over before he can decide.  
  
“Oh,” he says, numb, when Takao pulls back.  
  
Takao’s smiling at him. “Yeah.”   
  
“Oh,” Midorima repeats.  
  
“You can say something else, you know, Shin-chan.”  
  
“Shut up, Takao.”  
  
For once he listens, and the ride home is comfortably silent. Midorima watches Takao’s shoulders as he pedals, already strong and wide enough to stretch the fabric of his warmup jacket just a little.


End file.
